


sugar & spice

by peachyteabuck



Series: vanilla [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Mentioned Steve Rogers/Reader - Freeform, Trans Peter Parker, Transitioning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 08:12:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16850389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachyteabuck/pseuds/peachyteabuck
Summary: tony stark is desperate to help peter parker through his transition. he comes to you for help.this takes place in the same universe as vanilla, but the previous part is not necessarily required reading.





	sugar & spice

The incessant pen-clicking is making you want to dig your perfectly manicured nails into the face of the next person who dares disturb you. It’s like a fly stuck to the inside of your ear canals. “Tony, if you want to stim, I ask you don’t do it in my office.”

The pen clicking stops. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles out. “I just…I really need to talk to you about something.”

You raise your left eyebrow and exhale deeply before turning to face him, fingers keeping the place on the wordy pages. “This paperwork for Clint’s medication comes first and you know that.”

“Yeah,” Tony admits. “But-”

“No, no ‘buts.’” you turn back to your work. “I will do this and then I will pay attention to you.” To say that you’re a very  _particular_ person would be an extreme understatement. Your hyper-attentive type-a personality has always caused you to be a “one-task-at-a-time” type of person, which can be both a good and bad thing. “Good” meaning you’re the best of the best in your field, you got a 4.0 GPA from your sophomore year of high school until your last year of college, and you’ve always gotten the first jobs you apply for. “Bad” because right now you’ve got a man who wants your attention, a stomach that demands to be filled, and about twenty different long and overcomplicated medication names printed in 11-point font on a too-white piece of paper that burns your eyes in ways you never thought possible. “Bad” can also refer to your inability to work around sounds your brain doesn’t…accept. Certain music is okay, so is your TSA-approved white noise machine. But the clacky, inconsistent sound of a .38 G2? No. Absolutely not. The clacking makes you want to snap the pen in half.  “Anthony, if you get me my order from Panera I will put everything that you specifically pay me to do aside and will give you anything that you want.”

Tony - always one to recognize a prime opportunity - immediately jumps at his chance to talk to you within the next three hours, bolting out of the room to the nearest location - a mere fifteen miles away.

 _Good_ , you tell yourself. _That should give you just enough time to check doses, check therapist notes, and make your final decision._  In truth, it would probably be more than enough time to finish what in reality is a five-minute task, but then you could also shave off three or four  _other_ five-minute tasks. Boom, time management at its finest.

By the time Tony blops a green garden cob salad with no tomatoes or bacon, a medium sweet green tea, and a hunk of bread in front of you, half of your to-do list is done. Ah, the wonders of nobody being around to bother you or interrupt you or whatever else they can think to do.

You take a few bites before speaking, breaking apart the boiled eggs and evenly covering the salad with the corresponding dressing. “Okay, what do you want?”

It’s in that moment when Tony’s whole stature considerably softens. Before he was his usual annoying, over-confident self, but now he seems like a teenager who wants to ask his mom where babies come from, or why his dead left, or something equally hard to question your parent about.“I…I need to talk to you about something…”

You slip into therapist mode, voice lowering to soothe him and notebook ready to write down anything that comes to your mind. Salad be damned. “What is it?”

Tony gulps a little, wringing his hands. “You did work with LGBTQ counseling right after college, right?”

“Yes,” you reply. “For about five years in my late twenties.”

He’s now rubbing the joints of his left hand with the ring finger and thumb of his right. He makes it to his middle finger before he tries to speak again. The words are crumbled together and hard to hear; it’s a Tony you don’t recognize. Even in literal life-threatening situations, his voice remains steady and clear. The way is talks is nothing short of deeply  troubling. “I have…there’s this, I found this new kid and he’s, oh my God he’s so great and he’s such, I just want to-”

“Tony,” you tell him. “Calm down, start slow and simple.” He hasn’t met your eyes since you asked him what’s up, his eyes trained on the photos behind you. You’ve changed the order of them and added a few new ones. Additionally, there’s an inspirational quotes date thing you’ve taken a liking to. You can see him trace the cursive letters with your eyes and then read the title of the books you have leaning against each other. As you speak, you can see him mouthing them.  _Medical Apartheid: The Dark History of Medical Experimentation on Black Americans from Colonial Times to the Present, Considering Class: Theory, Culture and Media in the 21st Century, The Color of Law: A Forgotten History of How Our Government Segregated America_. The long strings of words seem to calm him a little. “Try to be specific. How can I help?”  
  


Tony breathes in shakily. “There’s this kid, name’s Peter. Want to like, recruit him or whatever it is we do with…you know. And I want to help him, but I don’t want to intrude on his Aunt’s, like, custody over him? If that makes sense? But this kid is so great, oh my god, and I want to like, do something for him and he like, he told me he’s transgender and I like, want to help him with that?”

You scribble a few things down.  _Related to father’s death resurfacing, top/bottom surgery, HRT, attempts at normalcy._  “And you want me to…”

Tony sucks in a harsh breath. “I need you tell me if I’m doing the right thing.”

Internally, you groan and then mentally light yourself on  _fire_. You’ve seen this way too many times in your career and in the careers of people you’ve worked with. Not just with parents of non-straight and/or non-cisgender children or teenagers, with literally everyone ever. “The right thing,” you try to explain. “Is incredibly specific to the situation and the people at hand. For me to tell you what’s right or wrong I’d need to talk to the child, the Aunt, the child’s therapist or doctor-”

Tony sighs, almost defeat. “I just-”

You sigh, too, but yours is more annoyed than anything else. “I understand, and I can give you some resources, but don’t do anything without the consent of both the child and the guardian.” You watch Tony, tone stern. “And don’t come back until you have more information and solid grounding. Got it?” Tony nods. You grab a few things from a folder you have labeled as “LGBTQ RESOURCES” in blocky black Sharpie and hand them to him. “Do some reading, and be supportive, okay?”

“K,” Tony mumbles, and leaves your office with his tail tucked into his legs.

You don’t think much of the interaction (if you constantly mulled over the shit people came to you with you’d never have time for anything else, ever) until Bucky comes to you.

Bucky coming to you willingly in and of itself is very strange. He, like Stark, thoroughly dislikes talking about his feelings, his trauma, et cetera. Any questions he has in relation to, you know, the original reason  _Anthony Stark hired you_  he funnels through Steve. You’ve been working here for…what, a year? And a half? You’ve talked to Bucky maybe three times. Maybe.

He doesn’t knock or make himself known, and you only notice him when you turn to grab something from the bookshelf by your doorway.

“Jesus H Christ, our Lord and Savior!” You shout. Still, he doesn’t move. Damn assassins - Natasha and Clint do the same fucking thing. “You scared the shit out of me! What the fuck is wrong with you!?” A long pause ensues, and you smooth down your skirt and blazer in an attempt to calm down.   
…Sorry. That was unprofessional. What do you need?”

Bucky sits down on your couch, knees locked together to make himself small. “Can you tell me about…I wanna know about gender.”

Your eyebrows raise to your hairline. “What…about gender?”

Bucky shrugs a little. “Like gender…you know…”

Now you’re suspicious. Bucky is incredibly precise and specific. When he wanted to know about science, he asked about a billion questions until you just ordered a bunch of books for him from Amazon. This, though, sounds like someone who has no idea what to ask but still is searching for answers. It’s noble to whatever cause he’s pledged his loyalty to. “Like gender roles? Relationships? I need you to point out some more particular things what you want to know about, Bucky.”

Bucky, just like Tony, doesn’t meet your eyes. This, too, seems like a sign of his nervousness. “What about boys who used to be girls, and girls who used to be boys?”

 _Oh. Maybe Tony had told more than just you about the new kid_. “Like, people who are transgender?”

Bucky nods, staying silent.

You swallow. “This is, I have to tell you, an extremely complicated topic. Gender, stereotypes, labels…there are people who study this type of stuff for a living-”

“Just give me the quick version… _please_ ,” He’s almost begging now.

“Okay,” you tell him. “But you have to remember that there’s a lot more to this than what I tell you…”

So you explain, or try to, being trans. How they’re are born that away, common language, what’s right and wrong. How they weren’t “born in the wrong body,” how they’re not the child predators mainstream narratives make them out to be. How to respect them, how to be an ally. You’re talking for about forty minutes before Bucky thanks you and excuses himself. Just as he reaches the doorway, Bucky turns back to face you. “You said there were books…?”

That day is the start of the slow and steady stream of questions that everyone starts to ask you. With Steve, it’s while you’re cuddling post-blowjob. He asks you about supporting trans kids during transitioning. Natasha asks you about binding while you try to make pancakes for yourself and Steve. Clint comes in your office one afternoon the next day to complain about a medication side effect and lack of proper transgender representation in media. While asking Bruce about adjusting Clint’s said medication, he asks about medical and surgical transitioning verses social. Vision comes into to ask you about high-level queer theory, and then Wanda comes in to tell you that debating Vision about the queerness of time is probably not what the kid really needs.

It’s puzzling, but heartwarming at the same time…like a full-grown crocodile cuddling with a three-legged kitten. It sort of dies down after a few weeks, the proper resources distributed and professionals contacted and paid for their time. You keep up finding books for Bucky, who promptly distributes them to Nat and Bruce once he’s done with them, and Steve still sometimes asks you stuff - but not as much as in the beginning.

Soon after that, you develop a small cold; Probably too much coffee and not enough water (or maybe it’s because you’re overworked and have a weak immune system, but Steve is allowed to think whatever he wants to thank you very much). You still work, though, even if you go through significantly more tissues than usual.  At one point, you’re too engrossed to grab one in time and sneeze violently into your cardigan sleeve instead.

“Bless you!” A high-pitched voice says from the doorway.

“Th- who the-” Is all you can reply, the intruder scaring another sneeze out of you.

The kid, who looks about fifteen, immediately starts apologizing profusely. “I’m, oh my God I’m so sorry! I’m Peter…Parker? Mister, uh…Mister Stark told me to come down here and talk, he said I should talk to you while he, uh, he puts the finishing touches on my, uh, while he moves some furniture where I’ll be, uh, where I’ll be staying…”

Oh, right. Stark did say something about this…maybe. He has this nasty habit of talking to you while you’re doing other things, which makes you forget whatever he’s saying to you. “Yeah, yeah of course…” You gesture to the couch. “Please, sit.”  
  


He shoves his hands in his pockets awkwardly, taking a look around before sitting on the edge of the plush cushions. For a few moments, neither of you speak…you just take each other in. You look at his ratty skinny jeans, ratty sneakers, worn t-shirt, obviously hand-me-down jacket. It has a few patches hand-sewn on: one for NASA, a trans flag above a bisexual one, one of saturn, soome little tube things you use in labs (what are those things called..flasks? Beakers?). In turn, he takes in your houndstooth high-waisted pants, olive green sweater that stops right below the waist of your bottoms, red nose, barely-put-together bun, and black flats. Both of you look like stereotypes, but neither says anything.

Peter speaks before you can. “So, uh. I was supposed to speak to you?”

His voice snaps you back to your job. You know, that thing you tell the federal government you do and whatever? That title you flaunt around at conventions and your LinkedIn page? “Yes, he had a few concerns about you moving into the Tower that he asked to try and resolve.”

Peter looks incredibly uncomfortable, shifting around nervously. “Y-Yeah, uh, he uh, he kinda-uh,”

Oh, the poor kid. “Hey, listen. The kind of concerns Mr. Stark has about your moving into the Tower are not regret or hesitation. Rather, he wants to make sure your gender identity and anything related to it are handled correctly.”

Peter nods slowly, still tense but a little relieved. “Y-yeah, okay.”

You lean back a little in your chair, grabbing a folder behind you. It’s his medical file with a few notes from a past therapist and school counselor. “So by the looks of it you’ve socially transitioned, is surgery something you’d like?”  
  


Peter shrugs. “I don’t, I was thinking about, uh, about going on T and then, um, then maybe getting top surgery but uh, right now I don’t, I’m not sure about, uh, about bottom surgery.”

You nod slowly, making note. “Sounds good. And you’re…fifteen? And you’re on hormone blockers. I’m sure Banner gave you the speech about supplementing?”

“Y-yeah, uh, I already am but he recommending a new, uh, a new brand…” You can see him sit up a little straighter to try and look at the manila folder in your hand. “What’s, uh, what does that file say?”

You shrug, handing it to him. None of it is confidential, what does matter? It’s easier to quall the kid’s anxieties than to let them fester. “The normal stuff. Notes from the physical you got done this morning, the results of some tests, info about your hormone blockers,” you explain. “Your gender marker is still female, I’m assuming you want that changed.”

He bobs his head up and down enthusiastically. “Oh, of course! I just need-”

You shake your hand at him dismissively. You’re not an amatuer, you’ve got this covered. “You already have your name changed and we have a copy of the court order. We can talk to a lawyer or something to get it all worked out, and I’ll have to contact your Aunt, but it shouldn’t be too hard.” Peter seems at a loss for words, too happy to say anything. Stunned, he hands the paperwork back to you. You can’t help but smile widely, too. You love your job - you do - but sometimes it can be incredibly stressful and taxing. Things like this remind you that you wouldn’t trade this job for the world (as incredibly cliche as it sounds). “Any other questions?”

He shakes his head, teeth bright and eyes shining. “No, thank you so much!”

You smile back at him, closing the door and switching the sign around as he leaves. Now it told people to stay away unless they have an appointment. “No problem, come to me if you need anything!”

That night, you can’t seem to stop a faint smile from creeping on your face.

“Good day at the office?” Steve asks, kissing you on the top of your head.

You look up at him, tracing his plump lips and jawline with the pads of your fingers. “Yeah, totally.”

A couple of months later, you call Peter back into your office. Nothing is wrong, you assure him, you just want to have a chat about his acclimation to the Avengers and whatnot. When the appointment arrives, he knocks on your door three minutes late bouncing on his heels.

“Hey, Petey, how ya doing?” You ask him. This normally happens with clients, your sweet vernacular will start to slip through the more time you spend together. One professor called it “wildly unprofessional,” another called it “comforting.” You choose to believe only the latter.

Peter nods enthusiastically. “I’m good, I’m super good! Everyone is, this is just so cool and…”

He talks for awhile about everything he’s experienced, what it’s like, what he loves about it. You take notes, but they’re in the “good things” section of your notebook. He talks about how Bucky always makes sure he stays safe in public bathrooms, how Natasha gave him this knife (which he never uses - but he appreciates the gesture anyway), how Bruce cleared him for top surgery next month. It’s so incredibly sweet of all of them to help them like they are, and it makes you so happy.

“I’m delighted that you’re doing so well here,” you say, and his eyes twinkle. God, what a good kid. “That’s just…this is great. Just let me know if you need anything at all, okay?”

He nods. “Yeah, of course! Thanks doc!”

You smile, and escort him out. “No problem, kid.”

Normally, you would shake off the appointment and go right back to everything else you needed to do. But today, you take the moment to soak it all in. You do a lot of things as self-care - you have to in order to be good at your job. Sometimes that involves writing, sometimes it’s painting, sometimes you clean. Other times, you just allow yourself to be  _happy_ and to not worry so much about whatever else you have to accomplish that day. Sometimes the world can be absolute, total garbage. Other times? It’s okay. And you’re willing to accept that if it means some child lives a happy life  _with_ his differences, not despite them.


End file.
